Dead Dog's Tale

As I stumbled off the Greyhound and into the inferno of Los Angeles’s Figueroa Street, I was immediately assaulted by the pungent cocktail of sweat, sex, and hopelessness. The air reeked of unwashed pussy and bad decisions, a sugary stench that clung to your skin like the ghost of sins past. I could feel the spirit of Dirty Harry gripping my soul, whispering dark truths about this forsaken stink of urban decay. This wasn’t just another day in the city of Angels; this was a plunge into the gut-wrenching bowels of the beast, a reckless dive into the chaotic underworld where the polished facade of civilization cracks wide open, exposing the raw, throbbing nerves of reality. The sun hung low, casting an eerie glow over the sprawling mobile meat market, a fitting backdrop for the madness I came to unleash. The streets were a twisted tapestry of human folly, each thread woven with tales of survival, ambition, and relentless vice. The gutters ran with hard-cried tears and the kind of piss tha

  I had long left the evening dark behind me, a filthy cloud of Arizona's crumbling asphalt and desert dust trailing in my wake. My mission was clear: outrun the night and put as much time and space between myself and Tucson as possible. But Nevada's 93 North, with its pitch-black void, finally cornered me. Phantoms of rime and rain swirled around my truck, thick tendrils of chilled fog closing in from all sides. Eighteen-wheelers haunted the road, behemoth ghosts roaring out of the shadows, ripping past at break-neck speeds, shaking my U-haul and rattling my frayed nerves. Exhaustion finally kicked its way in and grabbed me by the collar. With my focus wavering, drifting over the white line as the fuel gauge needle drifted uncomfortably close to E, I conceded to the night. I searched the horizon for the faintest glimmer of city lights. I found salvation in the small, unincorporated town of Alamo, Nevada. As I slowed from 70 mph to 25, the truck vibrated and shook, tires slippi

I chose this rural fortification in Marsing, Idaho, for the privacy it offered and the particular energy it exuded. The walls were a canvas of messy graffiti tags, quickly scrawled upside-down pentagrams, and sloppy spellings of "Satan" alongside the ubiquitous "666." Holes were kicked and punched in the walls, and the shattered glass from broken windows and beer bottles crunched beneath my boots. My intuition was correct. This space was steeped in a rich history of emotional angst, pangs of helplessness, and unfettered rage—the exact flavor of mana I required. But I wanted more. My familiar spirits whispered that the prime location was yet to be discovered. The upper floor needed to be tactically unsound. While this was a lonely place, the flickering candlelight visible from the windows could still pique the curiosity of uninvited guests. Who or what roamed the Idaho farmlands in the pitch of night was not the equation I was here to explore. However, cocking b

  Functional violence is not a concept grasped by the Western soft-bellied neo-bourgeoisie. Socialist and Marxist-leaning through indoctrination and still alive only by the grace of their ability to leech off their hardworking capitalist parents. The Western soft-bellied neo-bourgeoisie is pathetically and utterly incapable of defending itself from the devastation brought by the foreign horde (a horde it summons); it believes it might ally with to destroy its hated "patriarchy," a horde that will instantaneously turn on and devour them.  The Western soft-bellied neo-bourgeoisie understands indirect violence, mob mentality, riots, and looting. But when thrust into a situation without a driving force of destruction they can get behind (an Alpha to lead the Betas), they become what they are in nearly all other aspects of their lives: inept.   Functional violence means the ability to be the tip of the spear, with or without the support of others. To wound, injure, rend, maim, and

I won my black belt in Judo at 14 during a Batsugun.  A Judo Batsugun is when a tournament's competitors line up, from the lowest-ranked white belt to the top-ranked black belt. The lowest-ranked white belt steps out on the mat and challenges the second-lowest-ranked white belt. The contest winner challenges the next Judoka, and so on until the highest-ranking black belt is called out. I was third in line from the beginning. That night, I took my black belt off the highest-ranking black belt under 18 in Southern California.  Later, I discovered it's partly what got me noticed by some interesting people, and my name was "highlighted." I was 17 in the mid-1990s when an organization recruited me to hinder the advance of MS-13, looking to gain footholds in rural areas of Idaho, Oregon, Washington, & Montana. They would train males 15 to 16 years old and "seed" them in small Podunk towns in the Pacific Northwest. These seedlings recruited members, primarily o

I first heard about him while I was in Las Cruces. An old Apache knife fighter and Brujo, still honing his edge and blooding his hands in the desert. Based on a rumor, I spent a week trekking up and down the Rio Grande searching for him but learned from his friend in Mesilla I'd missed by a few months. It was in Lordsburg I caught up with him, a short and round man with eight or nine rattlesnake heads circling his hat band.  He flatly denied he was who I was looking for. I wasn't buying it, so I lunged at him after a couple more protests that I should go away. He had a knife as fast as a rattlesnake's strike, the tip pressing firmly into the skin under my chin. I smiled as he rolled his eyes. He'd blown his cover.  That evening, we shared a pack of Pall Malls and a 12-pack of Modelo in the alley behind his house as candles to Jesus Malverde and Saint Jude flickered in the darkening shadows. We told stories about hunting down our common enemy when he stopped abruptly. &q